A firing table is a simple concept in theory, but a masterpiece of lethal mathematics in practice. For a long-range marksman, it is the difference between a wasted shot and a confird kill. It tells the shooter exactly which mil-dot to use for a specific distance.
Kian spent the evening mapping the terrain. He drew a topographical sketch in his ledger, marking every key landmark visible from his perch.
Elder Silas's Command Shack: 500 ters.
The Jagged Monolith (Left Flank): 800 ters.
The Reclaid Farmland (Right Flank): 1,200 ters.
The Forest Access Road (Primary Entrance): 1,400 ters.
With these coordinates burned into his mind, Kian wouldn't need to range-find during the heat of battle. If a target appeared near the big rock, he'd simply glance at the ledger taped to his forearm and adjust his scope instantly.
Then ca the windage. Kian had spent an hour staking wooden rods into the ground at varying distances, each topped with a strip of cloth. If the wind picked up, the "wind-socks" would tell him the speed and direction.
With his Ballistics Proficiency at 91, Kian was a maestro of the long-rifle. In "Simple Wind"—a steady breeze blowing from one direction—he could put a slug through a target's eye-lens at 1,500 ters. Only "Complex Wind"—where the air currents changed direction and speed every few hundred ters—gave him pause. Without high-end chanicus wind-sensors, such shots were gambles he wasn't willing to take.
Kian worked until 20:00, selecting four backup firing positions along the ridge. He then retreated to a wooden hut provided by Silas to sleep. He needed his nerves steady for the dawn.
At first light, a heavy hand shook Kian's shoulder. It was Elder Silas.
"Rise, Marksman," the old man rasped. "Today, we discover if our blood is enough to satisfy the Emperor, or if we continue to toil in His na."
Silas looked every bit the rebel warlord. He carried a PDF-pattern autogun, his chest covered in a crude canvas rig stuffed with magazines. An iron axe was tucked into his belt, and he wore a straw hat dyed a muddy yellow-green with plant extracts for camouflage.
Kian yawned, hoisting his heavy rifle. "You know, Silas, if the fight goes south, you can just run. Hide in the deep woods for a month, wait for the PDF to get bored, and start over. No sha in surviving."
Silas shook his head, his expression as hard as the mountain behind them.
"This is our ho. My comrades bled to clear this land. If we run today, we run tomorrow. If we run every ti an oppressor clicks a safety, then we deserve the yoke. To the invader, we offer only Iron and Blood."
Kian let out a dry whistle. He wasn't a "True Believer" in the cause, but he respected the grit. He reached into his tactical vest and pulled out a Regen-Bolt.
"Take this. A gift for the man with the biggest stones in the sector. If you take a hit and don't die instantly, stop the bleeding and jam this into your neck. It'll bring you back from the threshold."
Silas took the green injector, weighing it in his hand. He didn't know the tech, but he trusted the Scavenger's lethality. He tucked it into his rig with a solemn nod.
They stepped outside. The rebel warren was a hive of activity. The cell leaders were delivering final sermons, checking the fuses on their pipe-bombs, and sharpening their blades. It took thirty minutes to mobilize. With a collective roar of defiance, the thousand-man militia scattered to their defensive posts.
Kian trekked up the slope to Sniper Nest Alpha.
The terrain was favorable for an ambush. The camp sat in a natural basin surrounded by dense "Product-Forests"—fast-growing, bio-engineered trees used for industrial cellulose. A steep mountain rose directly behind the camp, providing Kian with an unobstructed view of the entrance road.
The rebels planned to lure the PDF deep into the treeline, where the density of the woods would negate the Imperial advantage in range and coordination.
Kian lay prone on a soft bundle of rags, resting the heavy barrel of the precision rifle on his backpack. He checked his ledger. Everything was ready.
Then, he began his pre-combat "buffing" ritual.
He cracked a Strength Needle and an Endurance Bolster, the chemicals surging through his veins with a cold sting. He pulled out his bottle of Sanctified Spirits—only one sip remained—and drained it. Finally, he popped a Pain-Suppression Pill.
[COGITATOR STATUS: COMBAT PRID]
Strength: 23
Endurance: 23
ntal Clarity: 30
He felt like a god of the heights. His vision was crystalline; his heartbeat was a slow, deliberate drum. He could see individual leaves shivering a kiloter away.
Suddenly, at the junction where the plains t the forest, a massive, ancient tree toppled over with a distant CRACK.
Seconds later, another tree fell closer to the camp. Then another.
It was the "Falling Timber" signal—a primitive but effective rebel early-warning system.
Kian adjusted his scope, his finger ghosting over the hair-trigger.
At the edge of the forest road, the grey-green shapes of the PDF vanguard finally erged.
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